


Innocents' Song

by invisibledeity



Category: Christian Bible (New Testament), Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Infanticide, Violence against Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 16:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17227061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: A red-tinged star appears in the sky, and a traveller approaches a quiet homestead, intending to deal with an unfounded threat to his sovereignty.This has been written so you can read with either our dear Somnus in mind, or the Biblical counterpart, Herod. Works for either. Have a good Christmas!





	Innocents' Song

 

Low lay the star in the evening sky, and quiet the towns and villages as the traveller made his way south. He was not tired and he was not weary — all there was to him was a sway in his step and a surging feeling in his chest. No rush to get where he needed to go.

The star was a point of rosy gold against the encroaching black. If he squinted, it was a bead of blood, and that was far more satisfying to imagine. It was the same star as the one that rises in the morning, but here, at this hour, it no longer occupied the domain of love, but of war.

So be it. He could hardly change the heavens.

He walked on, ignoring the gathering cold, and keeping the bead of blood ever close in the corner of his eye.

His destination was not far.

 

 

Within the homestead’s meagre borders, a woman swept clean the stable floors, hard bristles scuff-scuff-scuffing the slabs of stone. It would have been easy to mistake it for a bored rhythm, but she was anything but. Prophecies were a dime a dozen, but still, the news from the temple that day had her on edge, and everything else was only a distraction.

When the gate swung open — a creak, a twist, a groan of wood — she snapped to attention, and laid her broom aside. The horses were stirring, starting to whinny in low murmurs.

‘Hush now, my honeys. Hush, hush.’ Patting the horses on the soft velvet of their necks, she left the stable.

When had it gotten so cold outside?

Normally she would look up at the sky, and had she done so she would have marvelled at the heavy glow in the fast-approaching clouds, and wondered if it would snow soon. But all her attention was on the gate, and the silhouette that now framed the threshold.

She could not see his face clearly but she could see his teeth through his smile. And there was something about his stance, the way he carried himself, that was familiar.

He smiled wider. He bowed his head. He waited for no invitation, crossing the threshold with a flourish of a step. Spry, like a jester, although the heavy cloak and the intricate embroidery told a different story. A carved brooch, with segments intertwining and jewels inlaid — how odd, how _regal._

He looked at her while she looked at his brooch; she could feel his attention, all unwelcome like flies to the picnic table, but she didn’t dare look up. A thin sliver of ill portent welled up inside her, making her feel dizzy, and quite unwell.

‘Good evening.’

His voice was calming, at least. Rich and melodic; a minor tonic to the tension in her gut. But it was far from enough.

‘Good… good evening, Sir.’

And his laugh — a bark in the crisp air.

‘Ah — I think you mean _Lord.’_

She looked up now, taking in his piercing eyes and strong jawline, the fine-trimmed black hair framing his brow, his well-cut beard. A face she had seen on coins, on leaflets, on signs, and once, only once, from afar in an arena at festivaltide. Her heart, thumping so loud in her chest she was sure he could hear it.

_Lord Suzerain._

How could she not have recognised him before? She bowed before him, far too hurriedly, trying not to wince at the sudden pain that lanced through her back. Too many hours bent over back, tending to the horses.

‘I — I am sorry, my Lord. Please… come in.’ A redundant phrase, while he was already making his way toward the door.

‘A pleasure, my dear. Now — is your husband in?’

He was already metres ahead of her. She rushed to open the front door to her little homestead, hands shaking slightly.

‘He’s in town tonight.’

Somehow, it felt too risky to say he was volunteering at the temple. She remembered how the Suzerain felt about such things.

‘On business?’

‘Business. Yes. Can I … get you some tea?’

‘Wine, if you please.’ He kept his cloak on indoors, and here, the light from the fire brought out the vibrant indigo of the material. Such fine cloth for such a fine man. That alone was enough to set her on edge, never mind his request. And, about that —

Her mind raced. Did they even _have_ any wine left in the larder?

‘We, ah… Well, I—’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it right now. Come. Sit.’ And he took the prime spot in the largest chair before the fireplace, beckoning to the seat nearby. It was jarring, being offered a seat in her own home, and she hesitated. The fire was dwindling, she could not help but notice.

‘Let me get some more logs for the fire…’

A bright smile now, one that made his eyes sparkle. His hair was dark and his skin was pale enough to be accused of having a pallor, but here, in front of the fire, meagre as it burned, he seemed _alive._

She had never been so close to royalty before, and she did not like how it made her feel as though she stood before a wild animal. Different rules, different worlds, perhaps that was all it was. All manner of questions clamoured in her head — the whys and wherefores of his arrival — but she asked none of them. She turned for the door. _Firewood, focus on that._

‘May I ask—’ the Suzerain’s voice punctured the atmosphere, and it was enough to make her freeze in her tracks, ‘—do you not have children who can deal with the firewood for you?’

‘I … do.’

The twisting returned in her gut — a snake coiling itself around her innards — and she breathed deep in a bid to control it, and turned for the stairwell instead. She steadied herself on the ageing oak bannister, something she had once watched her own mother do in her old age, and she called out.

‘Mattias? Agostino?’

A shuffling from the upstairs rooms. Something low and whiny that sounded like a response.

‘Boys, get down here. Help your mother out — we have a visitor!’ Footsteps on floorboards, some shouts of agreement — ‘We’re coming!’ She waited for the children to arrive, and turned back to her stately visitor. ‘They won’t be long.’

‘Marvellous. Woman, you are most kind.’

He had not asked her name. He probably had no mind to, and that was fine. She merely nodded in response, tried to steady her breathing, then finally she obeyed, and sat down in the chair beside the one he had taken. She had not polished the wood in quite a while; things like that she could not help but notice now.

Creaking on the rickety stairs.

His eyebrow raised, and for a moment he looked all warmth and benevolence.

‘Ah! The children are here.’

She followed his gaze — and how interested he seemed — to the doorframe, where her dear ones stood, waiting.

‘Boys, could you—’

‘How wonderful to meet you,’ her visitor said, talking over her clean and clear. ‘I should like to introduce myself, but first, you should help your mother. She needs more firewood for this dwindling thing.’ A flick of the wrist toward the fireplace, careless and casual as if it mattered none to him.

The children tripped over their own feet to the door, bickering with one another, and the Suzerain watched them leave with an amused smile.

‘Brothers… how sweet.’

She did not know how to respond to this, so she sat in silence.

‘I do miss my own brother,’ he said at length.

She remembered. She said nothing.

Outside: the sounds of wind, of clattering, of footsteps. The children came back in, Mattias tailing behind Agostino and struggling with his share of the logs. Both of them were ruddy-faced from the cold, but confident enough. She stood to gather the logs from Mattias’s arms. ‘Here we go, son, you go sit down over there now,’ — pointing to his toys in the corner — ‘and I’ll sort out the rest.’

Agostino was already piling fresh logs on the fire, bless the lad. He stood when he was done, and edged towards his brother, but the visitor’s presence was something even a child could not ignore, so he ended up hovering, caught between here and there, knowing there was some etiquette that had to be followed, but not understanding entirely what.

The Suzerain seemed to enjoy this immensely. He smiled, but showed no teeth this time, and clasped his hands together.

‘Now. What are your names?’

The question was to the both of them, but he did not break his focus from the taller child. Agostino seemed to sense this, and he spoke first.

‘I’m Agostino.’ He shifted under the Suzerain’s gaze. ‘And, uh… this is my brother, Mattias—’

‘You are the eldest, hmm?’

‘Yes.’

‘Agostino… it is quite a special name, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose, Sir.’

‘Not ‘Sir’. Lord.’

‘L-lord?’

‘I am your Suzerain. Do you know what that is?’

‘Um.’ Agostino paused, and thought for a minute. ‘You’re like a … a king, is that right?’

The Suzerain laughed aloud, and how sharp and piercing it seemed in the little cottage. He waved a hand like he was waving a fly away. ‘No, no. Not yet, anyway.’ There, again, the spark in his eye. He shifted in his chair, and breathed out a deep sigh. ‘I rule this small region at the behest of the dear God-Emperor himself.’

‘Wow.’

‘But — your name, now. I don’t think I finished.’ The Suzerain beckoned, and Agostino glanced at his mother. She nodded. He stepped forward. The Suzerain extended a hand, clasped his chin suddenly but gently, turned his face this way and that. ‘Agostino… Venerable, eminent, _ardent_. One might say it is a name for kings.’

The woman was not sure whether this was a compliment or not. The sensation in her chest ran warm then, and she gripped the edge of her chair. She would have liked to tell Agostino to go play with his brother; she would have liked to change the topic of conversation. Both these things would have been incredibly rude, though, and she was no fool. Her husband was not here, and she could not anger someone so important.

She kept her grip steady on the hard wood until the Suzerain let go his own hold. Agostino was unharmed and unperturbed, although his cheeks, already rosy from the cold, were flushed all the more from the attention.

‘A name for kings?’ He spoke shyly.

‘Why, yes,’ the Suzerain said, but he did not explain further. He leaned back in the chair, increasing the distance between them, making himself comfortable in the chair’s frame, focussing his attention back on the woman.

‘Such fine names you pick for your sons.’

‘I hope it does not offend.’

‘Quite the contrary,’ he said, but his smile was so open and disarming that she still could not tell.

‘Are you—’ Dare she ask? ‘—are you headed to the City?’

A sly expression on his clean-cut face now. ‘Are you concerned that I travel alone and without guards?’

‘Well. Ah—’

‘You need not worry. Where I travel, help is never far.’ He smirked, and crossed his legs. ‘But no. I am headed to the temple.’

She wanted to ask about the prophecy, about the Second Saviour — did that rumour hold any weight? — but instead she merely repeated his words back at him. ‘To the… temple?’

It was as though her echo did not reach him. He stretched out, and said, ‘Ahh, such warmth! For such a small cottage.’ Silence bubbled between them, silence in which she did not know what to say any more, in which the only sound was Mattias moving his little wooden soldiers back and forth on the floor. The Suzerain cast an idle gaze around the room. Rafters, fireplace, mantelpiece, and back to her. ‘Now, about that wine…’

‘Yes, of course.’ She inclined her head, and stood up. Agostino still stood, perched near the Suzerain all doe-eyed and curious, and she considered asking him to accompany her, but stayed her tongue. It would be better if Agostino could watch over Mattias and make sure the Suzerain was left unbothered.

She told herself this, and pushed down the tension in her stomach until that tightly-coiled spring lay trapped under layers of etiquette and propriety. All she need do was get the man his wine — and pray to God they still had some stashed away somewhere — and hope it would be enough to sate such a royal visitor.

It took her a while to realise that he had entirely evaded her question as to his purpose.

 

 

It truly was a comforting fire. He considered saying so, but he guessed the children would not care. Instead, he yawned and stretched, and told Agostino that his mother was very, very bold indeed.

It was endearing, the way the young boy’s eyes widened at this, the way his lips parted in confusion. It was endearing, and that was not subjective, that was merely an observation. As it was, the Suzerain held no love for the child. Perhaps it was because the boy’s name was too perfect, his hair too amber, his demeanour too pleasant. He felt a wave of disgust; that a prophecy could be so _personal._

‘Tell me, my child…’ He beckoned Agostino to come closer. ‘Have you ever heard of the morning star and the evenstar?’

‘No…’

‘Well… They are the brightest stars in the sky, you know. And sometimes, they leave marks on people. Sometimes… they choose someone to play a part.’

‘They choose someone? Like a hero?’

He smirked. ‘Have you ever noticed such a mark on yourself?’

The boy shook his head, curious and bashful.

‘Come, let me check the back of your neck, then.’

And, how easy he turned, how simple, overcome with the notion that he might be _special._ The Suzerain brushed back the child’s warm, fire-bright hair, and thumbed over the nape of his neck. Nothing but clear, velvety skin.

‘Hmm, interesting.’

‘What? What is it?’ Agostino strained, clearly wanting to turn his head, but held rapt and obedient by the attention he was receiving.

‘Well,’ said the Suzerain, and he glanced over to the smaller child, still playing with his toys, ‘I cannot see a mark, but…’ One hand moved to his belt, to encircle around cold metal; the other still cradled the back of the boy’s neck. ‘I am not going to risk making a mistake.’

In a swift movement, his hand moved from the back of his neck to grip tight the front, crushing down upon that delicate voice box to stopper all sound as he drove his dagger into the boy’s side. The angle: upward, sliding in between the ribs to puncture his critical organs — heart, lungs, it did not matter which. A fierce heat, growing in the Suzerain’s belly, spreading throughout his body like the burn of a heady liquor. Blood throbbing in his ears like the drumbeats he recalled from the battlefield. Everything so sudden and ripping and tearing and _right._

He twisted the dagger, felt the boy’s body buck beneath him, kept a tight grip on that voice box, although that was likely unnecessary — the boy was too shocked to properly scream. For that small, hallowed moment he seemed quite beautiful. Hair like sunset, skin a blush, body pure and unblemished but for the subtle turn of the knife. He looked like an angel, until he started wheezing. Blood in the lungs, no doubt. His eyes grew wide, the shock overtaking him — such an incomprehensible thing, for someone so young — and his little body began to shake and shudder.

Mattias looked up from his game when the wheezing began.

‘Brother! Ago—’ He scrambled up, eyes fearful and hands reaching, and the Suzerain cut him off, letting Agostino’s body slump forward as he stood from his chair. A sharp yank on the back of Mattias’s hair and he slammed the tiny child face-first into the ground. No time for even a choked-up cry; he was fast out of it.

The dagger required quite the tug to extricate. Heavens above, what a beautiful thing, that ornate handle, that shimmering edge. He had made sure to get his own viziers to inscribe the right passages onto the blade, of course, and the firelight caught the edges of those words, making them almost dance before his eyes.

The second child did not pose as much of a threat — the eldest ones always carried the greatest risk, after all — but it was best to take no chances. He thrust the blade into the back of the knocked-out Mattias, near-on pinning him through to the floor. Unfortunate that the child started to rouse from unconsciousness right before he slipped away, spluttering and shaking as his brother had done before him. A quicker death would have been cleaner.

In the wake of the struggle, the Suzerain fell still, and drew a series of long, controlled breaths, feeling the ecstasy in his veins as he looked upon his works without despair.

 

When divinity spoke to him, it spoke in riddles more often than not; shattered half-phrases that seemed meaningless. It was always left to him to connect the dots, and he did so fervently, his desire to be acknowledged so strong, so intense, that all and any patterns between the messages became heavenly in his eyes.

What he was doing, it was not as simple as killing. It was rendering unto divinity what belonged to divinity. Whether his own flesh and blood, or a stranger’s child in a barn in the countryside, it did not matter. _For the sake of the nation, for the sake of the future, for the sake of your own ascension as more than just a vassal king_.

Divinity spoke to him, and oh, how he listened.

The noise in his ears was so very loud, but it did not block out the shuffling of feet behind him. He snapped out of his blood-hazed reverie.

Poor Mother, standing in the awning, holding a bottle of unlabelled wine and staring.

A second later and the wine hit the wall, missing his face by a matter of centimetres. The smashing of glass was joined by a horrendous wail. Such a raw, uncouth outburst, but he supposed it was to be expected. Her hands shook; it was clear she was about to launch herself forward — what else did she have to lose, now?

It took him a swift second to bend down and wrench the dagger from the smallest son’s back — the pull and flop of the little body as he did so was enough to make poor Mother’s voice pitch up so dreadfully. Then, back to face her, with the red-streaked knife in hand. She ran, all the same, and he caught her, held the dagger to her throat far too easily. People were embarrassingly straightforward when enraged, and she was no exception. He turned the blade to the flat side, let her sons’ blood streak across her throat, but only for a moment. When he pushed her back, when she staggered, it was clear who had control of the room.

He let her cry peter out, until she was merely repeating her sons’ names. Hands still shaking, eyes unsteadily roaming. Her world unravelling at her feet, drop by salted drop.

‘What a waste of a good wine,’ he murmured.

‘What have you _done?’_

She sounded so much better when she had been simpering and eager to please. He exhaled, a little too heavily, and tapped the used blade against the arm of the chair.

‘Are we not alarmed at the prospect of a usurper?’

‘A… what? Why did you…’

‘A _usurper_ , woman, I’m sure you know what that means. One who threatens the sovereignty of the crown itself.’

Now her face flashed with anger.

‘Was your own brother not enough?’

‘You misunderstand, my dear. Everything that was done, was done to un-sully the path to the Kingdom of Heaven. You must know what the prophets say in the temple.’

‘My children did _nothing!’_

‘That is true,’ he said, ‘and now they will not, come tomorrow.’ _And now my reign is all the more assured, and my kingdom is safe that little bit longer._

‘No! No, no, no…’ Her words turned to wailing once more, and he lowered the dagger, left her to rush to her sons’ sides. Such a tender family moment, and love had to be given its fair space in the wake of such necessity.

He watched her kneel in the blood beside her progeny, he watched her skirts turn red, and then her fingers, as she cradled her children close. Then, he brushed the black hair out of his eyes, and strode out of the cottage with a lilt to his step. The horses still whinnied in the barn, sensing something was not right, and he could have taken one of them, made his ride easier, but it was best to leave no trail. It was a fair way to the next homestead, but he looked forward to the journey. Now, the night lay thick and velvet, and the evenstar was long out of sight, but despite this, the road ahead of him was clear.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Herod had a habit of sentencing his own family members to death. We know little about Somnus yet (let's just wait for Ep. Ardyn) but I like the headcanon that he would be more than a little similar.
> 
> Much of the early Levant region around Jesus' time was ruled by client kings, aka the suzerainty. I like to believe that Somnus and Ardyn may have held similar positions in the world of Eos before aiming to become the Chosen Kings.


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